


Tossing and Turning

by okydoky



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okydoky/pseuds/okydoky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry reflects on his relationship with Draco after he disappears, and then returns, dirty and dishevelled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tossing and Turning

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to my beta leela_cat

You left on a Saturday, Draco. I remember the evening before. We'd had sex over the back of the couch in the living room of Grimmauld Place. That was where I had been living since the end of the war and for the last few months, you'd been quasi living with me as well.

I remember how you moaned as I pushed inside you, how your fingers turned white with pressure as you gripped the side of the couch. You bit your arm, leaving marks in an attempt not to scream too loudly. It never worked – you could never help being vocal and shouting out your pleasure for everyone to hear. We were both angry – we often were. As much as we thought we were in love, we still argued and tortured each other – we brought out the best and worst of each other.

Before you left, the worst came out a lot more than the best.

You left in the middle of the night, after you screamed that our bed – Sirius's bed – was the most uncomfortable piece of shit you'd ever slept in. It wasn't _that_ bad. I told you to fuck off. I was half asleep, and didn't mean it. But you took me literally and left, just like that. A pop of Apparation, and you were gone, before I'd managed to stagger out of bed. You left me standing in our bedroom, a pair of boxers in my hand, just one sock on, but otherwise completely naked.

I got dressed, but as soon as I was done I stripped off again. I knew you. You were in a mood and had stormed off to your mum's house for the night, or back to your old flat. You'd come home in a couple of days after sulking, and we'd both apologise and then have sex on the dining room table.

But you never came back. It's been three months now, and every time the Floo flares, an Owl arrives, or there's a knock at the door, I think it's you. I hope it's you. I have a lot of regrets about how the last few weeks of our relationship went, and I wish I could go back and be nicer to you. You deserved better, I deserved better, and _we_ deserved better. We could have been brilliant. We still could.

It's the middle of night, again. Someone's knocking on the door, and with a yawn, I get up from the couch where I've been reading _The Daily Prophet_. Over the last couple of weeks there've been a lot of kidnappings by a group the media is calling the Neo Death Eaters. The paper is filled with warnings against answering the door and Floo to strangers.

There's another knock, hurried this time. I frown, remembering the paper, and begin to walk faster, jogging the last few steps. I cast a charm to see through the door and there you are. I wrench the door open.

You're drenched, and covered in mud and blood, but beneath all that you still look like you. It's been so long.

"Draco… is that you?" I ask.

"Harry," you say, stumbling forwards a couple of steps.

You rarely call me Harry, only in the throes of passion when I'm inside you. To each other, we're still Potter and Malfoy, and I can't ever see that changing. Potter and Malfoy are our passionate sides, the lines of passion and anger which blur until they are one and the same.

I can't help but be suspicious about whether you are you, but neither can I just throw you out. I invite you in and run you a bath.

I pour in the lavender scent that you hate, and you don't moan like you used to. You strip without a word and sink into the bath with a sigh.

When I conjure tea, I add sugar. The first time I did this, you spat it out. This time you gulp it down as if you have not eaten or drunk in weeks.

I finger my wand tightly in my pocket. I won't move to curse you unless you try to curse me first. I haven't seen a wand amongst your things, anyway.

Your eyes are drifting shut, so I tell you to get out of the bath before you fall asleep and drown. You put on a pair of my pyjamas, as even though it's the middle of June, you're shivering horribly.

It's only when you're in bed – our bed – that it occurs to me. I haven't heard you speak, apart from my name.

I collapse into the armchair opposite the bed and watch you sleep. You look so young in slumber, so innocent. When, in fact, I know just how dirty and naughty you can be. It's only five minutes before you're tossing and turning. My heart leaps. Finally, something which reminds me of you. Maybe you are you.

Somehow I doze off. I don't know what time it is when you wake me, squirming in bed.

"Draco?"

You sit up, dead straight. "Potter, I fucking hate this bed."

I let out a gasp, and even in the dark I can see you me looking at me like I'm a complete twat. I jump on top of you, straddling your hips, and pinning your arms to the bed.

"It's you, it's really you?"

"Of course it's me, you oaf," you say, struggling.

"I thought – I thought you were one of those new Death Eaters."

"And you fell asleep in the room with me?"

I blush. That was stupid of me. "Why were you all dirty?"

You look away. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Were you with them? The new Death Eaters? Have you been there the whole time?"

You bite your lip, and nod.

I gasp, loosening my grip. "Oh, Draco. I thought you were just in a mood."

"Potter… I always come back to you."

"I know, I know."

By now, you're arching up into me, angling for a kiss. I can't help but give in. And that night, I make love to you in the bed you hate so much.

The next morning, you ask how I knew it was really you. You don't seem to hold it against me that I never looked for you. Not properly, anyway. You say you wouldn't have if you'd thought we'd split up. I don't know how to take this really, but I tell you about the bed.

"… like the Princess and the Pea."

"Are you calling me 'princess'?"

"If the shoe fits…" I shrug with a grin.

"Call me that again, Potter, and I'll cut it off."

I shudder, but you don't mean it. For years after that, in the privacy of our bedroom, when we're lying in bed, panting, sweat drying on our bodies, I call you _princess_. Even though every time I say it you try and push me off the bed, I don't stop. It serves as a reminder to both of us, of what we almost lost.


End file.
